


Everybody I know seems to know me well  - SPN fic

by loveinadoorway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, attempted suicide, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not sure if this won’t in the end stay a one shot. Revisited something that featured in my very first fan fic, Low Man’s Lyric. Dean so broken down he is in the loony bin after a suicide attempt. If it does get continued, it will predictably end where it always ends. Right now, it’s just terribly depressing. And to think it was the pudding that made me think of it again….</p><p>EDIT 29.06.2015: This story will not be continued and will remain unfinished!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Everybody I know seems to know me well - SPN fic**_  
 **Disclaimer:** Nothing here belongs to me and if it did, it wouldn’t get shared with you, LOL. Title and snippets from lyrics taken from Led Zeppelin, What is and what should never be  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Genre:** probably slash  
 **Spoilers:** S5  
 **Word Count:** ~2018  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Hurt!Dean/Cas  
 **Warnings:** attempted suicide, possibly wing!porn later, if there is a later  
 **Summary:** Not sure if this won’t in the end stay a one shot. Revisited something that featured in my very first fan fic, Low Man’s Lyric. Dean so broken down he is in the loony bin after a suicide attempt. If it does get continued, it will predictably end where it always ends. Right now, it’s just terribly depressing. And to think it was the pudding that made me think of it again….

He had been here before.  
Well, not here here, but in a place like this. He could remember that time when he'd hunted that wraith with Sammy.

This time, there was nothing to hunt, except maybe his own ghosts.

He was having a lot of problems to follow his own thoughts down to anything resembling a logical conclusion. They had doped him up good and proper. Maybe he shouldn't have fought.

He hadn't been able to keep the fight up for long, anyway, what with the blood loss and all.

He swallowed with difficulty. His mouth was so dry. There was a glass of water on the bedside table, but when he tried to reach for it, he discovered that he couldn't. He had been restrained.

Damn them.  
He blinked, but his vision wouldn't clear.

 _ Better do this right, bitch.  
Car’s in storage. Got a letter saying I want to be cremated. Money for it, too.  
Motel room, nobody’s going to come in here until morning. _

_ Quart of Jack. Not feeling a goddamned thing. _

Bobby, should write to Bobby, at least.  
No. No way.  
What would I say, anyway? That I can’t do this anymore? That it is too difficult to even get up in the morning these days? That there is nothing left for me in this world?  
Yeah, right, Bobby would totally get that.

Quit whining, bitch.  
I’ll take the shotgun.  
Mouthful of water, big caliber bullet, bang, end of story.

I just can’t do this anymore.  
 I don’t care if anyone will say I took the coward’s way out. I’m just past giving a crap about what other people say.  
I can’t do this anymore.  
What if I screw up? What if I end up being a vegetable in some stupid ass hospital? If I as much as twitch, I might not kill myself, I’ll just end up a basket case. Can’t risk that, no way.

If I take my knife and slice down deep from the crook of my arm all the way to my wrist, I’ll bleed dry real quick. Nobody’s gonna come in here until the morning, nobody. No way would they find me in time.

 _ God, that hurts…………………………………………………………………………………….. _

He swallowed convulsively.  
What had happened then? There were just some hazy images of a woman in a maid’s uniform staunching the blood with towels, calling 911, yelling at him not to die on her, of hospital rooms, of neon lights in his eyes and such.  
Dean just couldn’t remember anything clearly after he had finally blacked out from blood loss. Or had they put him under? He couldn’t say.

“You damned fool” he thought, “can’t even get that right, can you? Simple job of offing yourself and with all the equipment you had at hand, you just couldn’t get the job done, could you?” 

Dean chewed on his lip.  
It didn’t much matter anyway. Whatever would happen to him in here, there was just nothing left that hadn’t been done to him already, nothing that could scare him, except having to go on with his life as it was.  
It had all gone to pieces. What right did he have to live in the first place? He had done awful things. Things he had just pushed to the back of his mind so that he could get the job done, but they had caught up on him when the job was over and done with. There just was no forgiving all that. 

He couldn’t live with himself, he couldn’t bear to look at Sammy, it was just all over. What good was he still? He might as well just let his mind run on empty and shut down completely. They weren’t likely to let him go, anyhow. Not after the way he had fought them when he had first come to. Not after the stuff he had screamed at them. Not after the broken jaw and cracked ribs, the cuts and bruises he had given them.  
Dean closed his eyes.

 ** Catch the wind see us spin,  
Sail away leave the day,  
Way up high in the sky. **

He had lost track of time completely.Didn’t matter, anyway, if he had been in here for hours, days, months or years. Didn’t matter to anyone, least of all to himself.  
They had sent some doctor or other by with questions and ever more probing questions, he hadn’t responded. Even opening his eyes seemed like too much of an effort on most days.  
The only time he had moved of his own volition was when he had heard some disjointed bits of Led Zeppelin drift through the bars in front of the open window.What is and what should never be, how fucking fitting.

Castiel had come by a few times.  
The angel had stood by the bed, silent, motionless, yet somehow clearly conveying that he was at a loss at how to react to Dean, how to help, what to do, what to say. After a few hours of silent vigil, the angel would leave as suddenly as he had come.  
Or maybe Dean was just seeing things.

He looked at his arm, sticking out from the hospital gown. It was bony, too white, looked wrong, somehow. He traced the fresh scar on his left arm with the index finger on his right, shiny, strangely smooth and pink from the crook of his arm down to his wrist.  
Not good enough.  
Failed, as with everything else in his miserable life.  
Beating his head against the wall until half the room was covered in blood spatters didn’t change anything.  
It just gave him a splitting headache, nausea and a new room with padded walls.

Castiel was in agony.  
He hadn’t expected Dean to do that. Why had that man done that? He would have been pacing for weeks now, if he weren’t forced to remain incorporeal most of the time.  
And when he could materialize in Dean’s cell, he suddenly seemed to lose the ability to move. Or speak.  
He didn’t know what to do.  
He had been told to leave well enough alone, but he had stopped listening to other angels, no matter their rank, a long time ago.  
They didn’t understand.  
They couldn’t ever understand.

 ** If I say to you tomorrow,  
Take my hand child come with me,  
It's to a castle I will take you,  
Where what's to be they say will be. **

_ I can feel the angel inside of me like a red hot poker through my entrails. His light burns me.  
Get out, you bastard. _

_ I am Michael! _

_ I can hear the angel say the words, straining his vocal chords, forcing air from his …. No, not his, my, MY burning lungs. And then it starts. Wholesale slaughter in the name of all that is good and holy and I am forced to watch it, as my hands bring death and destruction, as my body moves to the tune of someone else’s music. _

_ Then the angel leaves, leaving nothing but searing pain and emptiness behind.  
And then I just shatter. _

Dean woke with a stifled scream on cracked lips. Still too loud to go unnoticed, given that he was under 24/7 surveillance, so the next thing was the prick of the needle and the haze of whatever it was they used to keep him calm, docile, manageable.  
Dean wouldn’t mind so much, if the stuff would also stop the memories and get rid of the pain.

The next time he opened his eyes, Castiel was there again, the usual silent presence at the foot of the bed.

“Not talking to the crazy dude, are we,” Dean rasped, sick and tired of pretending the angel was nothing but a figment of his disturbed imagination. Or maybe just too tired to care if Cas was just that in the end, after all.

“I don’t know what to say,” the angel said in a strangely lost voice.

With that, the angel was gone again. Dean laughed, a helpless, almost hysterical laugh that just wouldn’t stop.

Predictably enough, they came and put an end to that in the usual way.

Castiel had thought there was nothing worse than not being acknowledged, than being ignored by the one human being he needed to be noticed by.  
He had been wrong.  
Being spoken too in that broken tone, being looked at with those deadened eyes. Being hit by that complete lack of emotion or interest. That was worse than anything. Worse than the worst punishment he had ever received, worse than torture, even worse than the pain he had felt when he had taken Dean Winchester into his eternal arms and carried him from hell.

He stood on the summit of Mount Annapurna, tears streaming down his face, his real face. Where they hit the rock face, they ate into themountain. In his true form, he didn’t feel the icy wind that drove the snow over his perfect skin like icy knives and whipped his hair across his face. His wings were shaking in the gale and he threw his head back to scream his pain to the storm.

In his true form, he was magnificent. He wasn’t allowed to leave what the human had called a meat suit, an angel condom, on earth, but Castiel was past caring. There were very few beings who could harm him when he wasn’t restrained inside the body of a vessel. His powers had actually increased during the final blast of the decisive battle, multiplied tenfold, yet at a terrible cost. All that his powers were good for now was fighting. 

The gift of healing had been taken from him. He shouldn’t question God’s plan like this. He was supposed to be the ultimate line of defense against evil; he was an angel of importance these days. How Dean would laugh.  
The Guardian of Earth itself. A big step forward among the ranks of the angels.  
Yet none of that mattered, since he was helpless when it came to helping Dean this time.

The last few times Dean had fallen asleep, he hadn’t dreamed of that final battle. He had been taken back to hell. Alistair, the darkness and his knives instead of Michael, the blinding light and the sword. The sensations were the same. Pain and utter despair. The result was the same. His hands doing unspeakable deeds.  
Always his hands. 

Dean ran his thumb over a vein on the back of his left hand. Maybe he should have chopped his hands off. The thought seemed logical, compelling even in its simplicity. Chop off the offending members. Dean snorted a laugh, so quietly that the mikes and monitors wouldn’t catch it. With what would he chop hand number two off then? Crazy logic. Even if maybe he hadn’t been crazy when he tried to kill himself, he sure as hell was a nutcase now.

Was any of it real? Any of it?  
Reality had contracted to the cell around him. He could feel the padded walls; he could feel the padded floor, the sheets on the bed and the leather of the restraints they were no longer using, as they simply kept him under medication all the time these days.  
Reality was the rasp of his beard on the naked skin of his forearm; reality was the tasteless shit they gave him to eat, with nothing but a very blunt spoon to eat it with.

Castiel hadn’t come back after Dean had spoken to him.  
He took that to mean that the angel had indeed been nothing but a figment of his deranged imagination. Imaginary figures apparently vanished when you spoke to them, so he started to say one simple, short sentence to everyone who entered his room, just to determine if they were real. 

After a while, he stopped doing it and fell silent again. He had discovered that it just didn’t matter at all if anyone was real.  
He would never leave this place.  
So the existence of a reality outside of his cell was completely irrelevant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revisited something that featured in my very first fan fic, Low Man’s Lyric. Dean so broken down he is in the loony bin after a suicide attempt. If it does get continued, it will predictably end where it always ends. Right now, it’s just terribly depressing, with a very slight silver lining starting to show. And to think it was the pudding that made me think of it again….

_**Everybody I know seems to know me well - SPN fic Hurt!Dean/Cas Pt. 2**_  
 **Disclaimer:** Nothing here belongs to me and if it did, it wouldn’t get shared with you, LOL. Title taken from Led Zeppelin, What is and what should never be and snippets from lyrics from Kashmir  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Genre:** probably slash  
 **Spoilers:** S5  
 **Word Count:** ~2044  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Hurt!Dean/Cas, Bobby, Sam, Simiel  
 **Warnings:** attempted suicide, possibly wing!porn later  
 **Summary:** Revisited something that featured in my very first fan fic, Low Man’s Lyric. Dean so broken down he is in the loony bin after a suicide attempt. If it does get continued, it will predictably end where it always ends. Right now, it’s just terribly depressing, with a very slight silver lining starting to show. And to think it was the pudding that made me think of it again….

 **Oh let the sun beat down upon my face  
**  
He had been born on the day he carried his brother from the fire.

He had been raised on bitterness and the fanatic search for a truth that was so horrible that a sane mind could not deal with it.

He had matured in stinking alleys behind bars, driven by the constant need to provide for his brother what his father couldn’t or wouldn’t.

He had withered and died from truths that no man should be made to hear.

He had been raised from the dead by something so big and filled with a light so bright that it seemed like the universe smiled on him benignly for a change.

He had walked with a faint hope in his heart for much too short a time.

And in the end, he had been utterly destroyed by a power so terrible that it blew the fragile pieces of his mind to smithereens.

~~~~

Bobby ran his hands over his face. He hadn’t slept in days, or so it seemed at least.  
That goddamned boy had dropped off the face of the earth and the fucking angel was incommunicado. Ever since that day, the day that should have been one rosy, honey-scented triumph, but ended up being wholesale slaughter, gore and fire.  
Sam hadn’t been sober since that day and Bobby just wished at times that he could just turn back time.

If asked, though, he’d be hard pressed to pick the moment in time he’d want to return to in order to change the course of history. There were many moments Bobby could pick where things had gone horribly wrong, but even after days of mulling this over, there wasn’t a single one where he would be able to say that by changing thing A to thing B everything would have been cotton candy and sweet music from there on out.

He looked across the room to where Sam had passed out on the couch and wished he had something to offer to that boy. Something besides the empty reassurance that they would find Dean and everything would be alright if they did. Only nothing ever was alright, not for the Winchesters and not for Bobby Singer. Nor would it ever be. Not anymore.

“Goddammit, boy, where the fuck are you?” he growled under his breath.

~~~~

Castiel felt the snow settle on his body. He had sat there for days, maybe even weeks. Time had no meaning.  
He could feel the cold now, but that was just because he willed his true form to feel it. Because he needed to see if he still could feel anything, besides the grief and emptiness that consumed him. Even blinking the snow out of his eyes seemed like too much of an effort. The searing pain he had felt before was gone, but the dull throb that had replaced it somehow was even worse to bear.

In the distance, he could hear the rumble of thunder. The sky had darkened over the mountains, except for some sulfur-yellow areas and if Castiel didn’t know perfectly well just what an apocalypse looked like, this would be a very convincing backdrop for one.  
The Apocalypse.  
He stood up, suddenly filled with resolve. They had indeed survived the apocalypse. They had fought, almost despaired, suffered and in the end, they had won the day.  
He would not let what passed for normality kill them now.

 **  
  
 _And my eyes fill with sand  
As I scan this wasted land.  
Tryin' to find  
Tryin' to find  
Where I've been._  
  
**

He was talking to Castiel a lot.  
The angel sat on the edge of Dean’s bed and if the he were to stretch just a little, he’d be able to touch the angel’s hand. Cas wore pajamas with little cartoon devils printed on them. There was stubble on the angel’s cheeks and chin and his eyes looked a little weird, like they had when Dean had been transported to the future. The angel smiled a lot, though, and that was good.

“I think I should maybe learn to cook, you know. And bake, of course. Pie, mostly,” Dean said, grinning broadly.  
“Maybe I could even become a chef somewhere in a diner or something,” Dean nodded eagerly. “Would you eat what I cook for you?”  
The angel grinned and nodded.

That would be so cool. Maybe, if he could remember how to get there, he could take Castiel to meet his mom. Mommy lived in a white house in… Dean’s smile faded, his brow furrowing in concentration. He should know this. Mom and dad had a house in…  
Fire. Everything was on fire and the smoke stung his eyes.

Dean curled up into a tight ball in a corner of the room, whimpering and moaning.

When he opened his eyes again, the angel was sitting in front of him.  
Dean frowned. That wasn’t right, now, was it?  
Trench coat, suit, tie and stern expression. Dean wanted the funny pajamas back, but no matter how hard he tried, the angel just wouldn’t change.  
Strange.

Did that mean he was getting better or getting worse, Dean wondered for a brief moment, before deciding that it really didn’t matter at all which of the two it was.

Dean smiled pleadingly at the angel and said: “What did you do with the pajamas? I liked them better than this shitty old outfit.”

  
 _  
 **Oh pilot of the storm who leaves no trace  
Like thoughts inside a dream  
Who hid the path that led me to that place  
Of yellow desert screen.**  
_  


“This place is not helping you at all,” Cas said factually and with an air of pained finality, before grabbing Dean by the shoulder and blinking him to a nice bedroom somewhere.  
There was a quilt on the bed, the walls were painted a friendly powder blue and Dean thought that of all the things that weren’t real that he had seen, this was one of the nicest.  
He crawled under the covers immediately and inhaled the scent of fabric softener with a happy little snort.

Castiel stood next to the bed, not knowing what he should do now.  
Before, he would have placed two fingers on Dean’s brow and would have fixed whatever it was that had been broken. Where to begin now and what to do exactly was a complete mystery to him. In the end, he just sat helplessly on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

The human had slid under the covers, a tight ball underneath the quilt.  
Castiel made some small noises he thought might be comforting or reassuring and was rewarded by Dean turning to fix a puzzled green gaze on him. Cas placed his palm on Dean’s hand. The human smiled a boyish smile, completely trusting and open.  
Something shifted painfully in the angel’s chest.

“Come cuddle with me?” Dean asked, his own voice sounding weird to himself.  
Blood was suddenly pounding in his ears. There was something he wanted, something he needed. He tried to clear his head by shaking it, but to no avail. The drugs in his bloodstream made thinking a sluggish and ineffective process.  
There was something he wanted, had wanted for a long time, but couldn’t ever ask.

Dean closed his eyes.  
So much easier that way. Just sleep now.  
His last conscious thought was that it felt nice to have the angel settle against him, warm and solid.

Castiel was at a loss about what to do now.  
He hesitantly moved to lie beside Dean and tentatively placed an arm around the human’s midriff. He felt as if an enormous weight was taken off his shoulders at that moment, although he didn’t quite understand why. He could sense Dean falling asleep almost immediately, his too thin frame subtly shifting to align more comfortably with the angel’s body.

He used to know the planes, angles and curves of Dean Winchester’s body like the back of his hand. After all, he had restored it, reassembled it, made it whole and beautiful again after raising the hunter’s soul from hell.  
The body under his hand now felt unfamiliar, too angular, too thin. Castiel tried to find a spot for his hand to rest upon that hadn’t changed, but couldn’t, so in the end, he just kept it still over Dean’s belly button and tried to ignore the water that seemed to have somehow collected in his eyes.

When Dean woke, the sun was streaming through the curtains and the angel was gone. The room, however, still looked the same than before - the walls still a friendly powder blue, the wooden nightstand with the brass lamp and the Indian rug on the floor hadn’t changed.  
Dean sat up gingerly and groaned. He was hurting all over, his hands were shaking uncontrollably and the light hurt his eyes as his stomach started to roll most ominously.  
He could see a tiled floor through the open door on the right and rushed to the bathroom just in time before his whole body started to become hell-bent on turning itself inside out.

A wet rag was gently placed on his forehead and Castiel said: “I believe your body objects to being taken off the medication like this. I am sorry for putting you through this, but I don’t think I have a choice in the matter.”  
Dean could think of a goodish dozen of snappy comebacks to make, unfortunately he was not in the position to say anything.  
He watched his hands still shaking uncontrollably, as he kept on retching. He gripped the rim of the toilet tight. That way, the awful shaking at least stopped being noticeable.  
Some part of himself was strangely detached and simply observing the mess he seemed to be.

The angel had put one uncertain hand on the small of Dean’s back, awkwardly rubbing small circles there as Cas, just like the day before, made some unintelligible noises obviously meant to be comforting.  
The detached observer inside Dean’s head found that both touching and ludicrous, but to the heaving wreck that was losing it badly on the bathroom floor, the touch and the hums and shushes were the only thing to cling to.

When the retching stopped, Dean simply collapsed.  
Castiel contemplated carrying Dean back to the bed, as he knew that it would make his superiors so much easier to find him should he use his powers, but in the end, he just mojoed Dean back to the bed regardless.  
Dean just lay there like a broken doll.

“You were given the task of taking care of the entire world, yet you persist in abandoning your duties to care for this one, insignificant human,” a cold voice behind Castiel said contemptively.

“Simiel,” Castiel said calmly, nodding curtly in acknowledgement of the archangel’s presence. Only to be expected, really.

“You will resume your post immediately,” the archangel snapped. Castiel thought that the command would possibly had made more of a dent, if Simiel’s vessel hadn’t been a pimply computer geek type youth, glaring at Cas through thick glasses.

“Dean Winchester is not insignificant. He has saved this world and in my book, that means we owe him.” Castiel was trying not to let the murderous rage he felt show.

“We owe him nothing. Had he gladly, freely given his consent to be Michael’s vessel, I might be inclined to agree with you. But even then it would have been nothing more than his duty. Not giving his consent for such a long time, however, is deserving of such punishment as we see fit.”

So they _were_ punishing Dean.  
At least Simiel admitted it.  
Castiel barely suppressed the urge to ram his fist into the archangel ‘s face. But that was Heaven to you, wasn’t it? Measuring everything by their standards and theirs alone, not allowing for any other concerns or reasons. He couldn’t accept that anymore, not after all he’d seen and done. And that was the simple truth of the matter, wasn’t it?  
Castiel was not who he had been before rescuing Dean from Hell.

They would call him damaged, he knew. He, however, would like to think he had grown.  



End file.
